It seems blogging has gone the way of so many other things in my life. I have lost a taste for it, and it saddens me.
But still there is a nagging feeling that it's just a phase. I forget what it's like to not be myself, which, given my history, is a great thing. So why don't I feel happier?
I have cut much fabric lately and sewn nothing. Finished no pages. Taken no pictures. My children will look back on the last three months and wonder what happened to their life. I will tell them we were abducted by aliens and sent off to live on a planet where everyone wears polka dots and talks like mice, and where everyone goes to the pool every day and eats popsicles for breakfast. They will think it was the best three months ever.
I, however, will chalk it up to one of those unhappy but necessary processes on the way to happiness.
More later. The obscurity is getting to me.
